A Liaden Universe Constellation: Volume I

by Sharon Lee

  Daav watched him go—a slender, yellow-haired boy in trading clothes and well-made boots, the sleeve of his jacket bearing Korval’s venerable Tree-and-Dragon—until he lost him among the tall crowd of gamesters. He bit his lip, then, and blinked hard a time or two to clear his eyes, then went into the restaurant and asked for a table overlooking the floor.

  SHOULDERS STRINGENTLY level, Er Thom went across the noisy room. He looked neither left nor right—and most especially he did not look back, being wise enough to know that his fragile seemliness would never withstand the sight of Daav standing at the entrance to the restaurant, watching him safely out the door.

  Clack . . . clack . . . clack—as before, the sound drew the ear as insidiously as the flaring lights pulled the eye. Er Thom allowed himself a glance to the left and up, observing the Wheel as it clack . . . clack . . . clacked to the end of its course and was still, dark, but for a single wager-mark.

  “Blue Seven!” called the croupier, and flourished his wand across the betting table, collecting the losing wagers in a single, precise sweep.

  Er Thom discovered that he had stopped walking and frowned, remembering the formidable list of errands he had yet to accomplish in the high town for his parent. He put one foot forward, but his eye had been caught, precisely as before, by the Tree-and-Dragon sigil on the sleeve of Mechanic Bor Gen pin’Ethil’s jacket. As he watched, the man reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin, his shoulders rounded as if he stood under some unbearable weight.

  Hesitating, Er Thom tried to reckon the time that had passed since he had first passed the Wheel and its cluster of avid players, and then shook himself, crossly. What business was it of his, how a crewman on leave chose to amuse himself?

  Bor Gen pin’Ethil placed his coin on the table, his fingers hovering near, as if he might at any moment snatch it away.

  Er Thom frowned again, liking that round-shouldered pose of misery less with every heartbeat. He had been several times over the last months assigned to the repair bays, and more than once to Mechanic pin’Ethil himself. A gentle, sweet-natured man, Bor Gen pin’Ethil, skilled in his work and an able teacher, besides. The man who stood with his neck bent at the base of the wheel was as unlike Mechanic pin’Ethil as—as Chi yos’Phellum was unlike her twin.

  Er Thom hesitated, and in that moment the croupier extended his glowing wand to the Wheel, thick scarlet sparks flared wetly and the Wheel began to spin, picking up speed until the rimlights were but a foggy smear against the far indigo ceiling.

  Alone among the crowd at the table, Bor Gen pin’Ethil did not gaze, entranced, upward into the seductive flare of light. He looked down, staring, or so Er Thom fancied, at the place where he had set his coin.

  Er Thom bit his lip. Clearly, something was wrong, and the mechanic was a crewman. His crewman, if it came to that; he being the yos’Galan present.

  Mechanic pin’Ethil is ill, he decided. In such case, his duty as crew-mate and as yos’Galan was plain. He moved a step toward the man who stood, staring bleakly down at the table.

  Clack . . . clack . . .clack. The Wheel came to rest, rim-lights darkening.

  The crowd ’round the table sighed as one, saving only Bor Gen pin’Ethil, staring, steadfast, at his coin.

  “Yellow Eleven!” called the man with the wand. “The House wins!”

  Bor Gen pin’Ethil picked his coin up and turned away from the table.

  The thing was done so deftly that it took Er Thom, with his attention close upon the man, a moment to understand what he had seen. Alas, the croupier’s wand was more observant.

  It began to glow a steady and unalarming amber. The croupier raised it high over his head at the same time directing a courteous, “Your pardon, sir. A word with you, please,” at Mechanic pin’Ethil’s back.

  The mechanic did not heed the gentle summons, but moved steadily away from the table. Heart in mouth, Er Thom plunged forward, certain now that something was earnestly amiss. Even he, the rawest of halflings, knew that a wager once placed upon the table was sacrosanct. The House had won with Yellow Eleven. Mechanic pin’Ethil’s coin, covering Green Eight, was forfeit, by all the rules of honor and of play.

  He needn’t have hurried. The crowd parted for two tall Terrans in formal wear. One reached down and gripped Bor Gen pin’Ethil’s arm, holding him still. The second went to the table, carrying another wand to the croupier.

  “Malfunction?” she asked, taking the amber-lit wand with a rueful smile. “Ah, well. A spin on the House for everyone.”

  The croupier bowed and bent, reaching into his tray for coins to put into the questing hands of the players. Er Thom turned away in time to see the other Terran urging Mechanic pin’Ethil forward.

  The mechanic balked and twisted, trying to break the Terran’s grip. He failed, which could not have been unexpected, and sent a swift, panicked glance about him. Er Thom leapt forward, the man’s eye fell upon him and his face closed, becoming the calm, courteous face of an elder crewman. Deliberately, he turned back to the man who held him and inclined his head.

  “Hold!” Er Thom had reached the mechanic’s side and stared up into the face of the man who held him, and spoke in rapid Trade. “Release him. We will come with you willingly.”

  “Certainly, I will,” said Mechanic pin’Ethil. He drew a deep breath, looked calmly into Er Thom’s face, and murmured quickly in Liaden, elder crew to younger. “Halfling, this is not yours. Go now, you should not be in this place.”

  “These persons will want Balance, will they not?” Er Thom snapped, as if he spoke to Daav, rather than an elder. “Who else from your crewmates is here to support you?”

  “No one, gods be praised,” the other returned. He paused before inclining his head. “Your actions do you honor, but you must believe me—you want none of this.”

  “What’s the hold-up?” The female Terran was with them, the glowing amber wand cradled in her arm. She glanced over to her mate. “Who’s the kid?”

  “I am Er Thom yos’Galan,” he answered in his slow, careful Terran. “This man,” he used his chin to point at Mechanic pin’Ethil, “is of my crew.”

  “He is, is he?” She looked briefly amused, then shook her head and turned on her heel. “People are staring,” she said over her shoulder to the man who held Mechanic pin’Ethil’s arm. “Bring them both.”

  “Right.” The man walked after her. Perforce, Mechanic pin’Ethil walked with him, Er Thom keeping pace on his opposite side.

  Calmly, the man never loosing his grip on Mechanic pin’Ethil’s arm, they walked through the throng of gaily dressed people. Er Thom searched the faces in the crowd, but saw no one he recognized. Apparently, of all the Passage’s off-shift crew, only Bor Gen pin’Ethil found the Spinning Wheel to his taste.

  They passed a knot of Liadens in formal evening wear, the ladies’ jewel-toned dresses echoed in the gemstones worn by their escorts. A flicker of black moved at the edge of Er Thom’s eye and he turned his head to track it, thinking Daav, thinking—but there was no thin, fox-faced boy in scout leather staring at him from the depths of the crowd. Only heedless strangers, intent upon their own pleasure.

  Back toward the bandits and the lift bank they went, then turned sharply to the left, went down a short hallway and entered an office, where at last Mechanic pin’Ethil was released by his escort.

  Standing beside his crewman, Er Thom heard the door slide closed behind them, looked upon the stern faces of those who awaited them, and wished that he had taken Mechanic pin’Ethil’s hint and run.

  The next moment, he was ashamed of himself. Run, and leave a crewmate alone to Balance with strangers? Far better to have a mate at one’s side in such a wise. Though it would, Er Thom allowed, possibly have been more comfort to Mechanic pin’Ethil, had the mate who stood at his side been Petrella yos’Galan herself.

  Their female escort laid the amber wand on the desk before the sternest face of all, murmuring respectfully. “Here’s the evidence, Mr. Straudman.�
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  Mr. Straudman neither acknowledged her nor glanced down at the wand. Instead, he stared at Mechanic pin’Ethil his eyes cold in his pale face.

  “Stealing, Liaden?” he asked, his Trade flat and rapid. “We don’t like to have people stealing from us.”

  “I understand,” said Mechanic pin’Ethil in a calm, if slightly breathless voice. “The error is mine and I will endeavor to repair it.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” the man behind the desk said. “We know just what to do with thieves.” He smiled somewhat, and Er Thom felt his hands curl into fists. He took a breath and moved forward one step. The man who had escorted them here grabbed his arm.

  “Stop.”

  Er Thom inclined his head. “Very well.” He waited until he was released, then forced himself to meet the cold eyes of the man behind the desk.

  “I am Er Thom yos’Galan Clan Korval. This man is a member of the crew of Dutiful Passage. The ship will pay whatever fine is considered just and then we will leave. It is not yours to punish this man, though it is . . . acknowledged . . . that Balance is owed.”

  Beside him and one step behind, he thought he heard Mechanic pin’Ethil groan.

  The man behind the desk blinked, once. He looked to the woman who had carried the wand.

  “Dutiful Passage? And Clan Korval?”

  “Yes, Mr. Straudman.”

  Mr. Straudman was seen to smile again, a habit Er Thom wished he would give over, and leaned forward, almost companionably.

  “And your name is yos’Galan, is it? Well, well.” He looked around at the others, some of whom looked less pleased than he—or so Er Thom thought.

  “It seems to me we have a profit on the evening,” Mr. Straudman said, and pointed his cold eyes at Bor Gen pin’Ethil. “Maybe we ought to pay you a commission, grease-ape.”

  Mechanic pin’Ethil sighed. “Come, sir. Would you dice with the Dragon?”

  “Not in a month of bank days,” the Terran replied immediately. “But this isn’t dice. This is a simple sale.”

  He looked at Er Thom. “How much do you think Captain yos’Galan will pay to get you back?”

  Er Thom stared, thinking that it was just like his mother’s humor, and his fostermother’s, too—to declare herself well-pleased to be shut of an irritable, irritating boy, and wish the cold-eyed man joy of him.

  And perhaps that was the key.

  He moved his shoulders, and showed empty, apologetic hands to man behind the desk.

  “One has a brother, sir. I fear you would find the price not to your liking.”

  The cold-eyed man frowned, and leaned back suddenly in his chair, as if Er Thom had made a particularly clever move in counterchance. Er Thom held his breath, wondering what the man saw.

  “So you’re worthless, are you?” Straudman said eventually. “Why don’t we just call Captain yos’Galan and make sure that’s the case before I do anything rash?”

  “Because,” said a bland voice behind Er Thom, “you will but irritate the good captain, friend Straudman, and bring her eye upon the Juntavas. A poor business all around.”

  The man behind the desk frowned, his cold gaze leaping beyond Er Thom’s shoulder. “The kid says they won’t buy him back.”

  “He tells you nothing but the truth.” Scout Pilot Rod Ern pel’ Arot strolled into Er Thom’s view, then went past him to lean against wall by Straudman’s desk. “His brother is the one you want, if you intend to profit by selling Dragon-cubs to the Dragon. This one’s the extra.”

  “So, now what?” said the man behind the desk, for all the worlds as if The Scout were a trusted advisor.

  The Scout moved his shoulders against the wall. “While it is true you are unlikely to profit by selling this boy back to yos’Galan, it is also likely that the presumption of offering him will gain you her attention.” He snapped upright. “Let them go.”

  Straudman frowned. “Both of them?”

  “A first class mechanic is something the yos’Galan will miss,” The Scout said simply.

  For a moment, there was silence, then Straudman nodded and waved a hand at the room in general.

  “Get them out of here.”

  “I’ll take them,” said Scout pel’Arot. “It’s time I was back at station.”

  He moved forward, beckoning to Er Thom with his two-fingered hand. “After me, cub. And try not to trip over your own feet.”

  Which, Er Thom thought, was really uncalled for.

  Though it was nothing compared to what Daav had to say to him, some few minutes later, at the head of the Avenue of Dreams.

  PETRELLA YOS’GALAN sighed gently, and folded her hands atop her desk. In the chair facing her across the desk, Er Thom recruited himself to await her judgment, the echoes of Daav’s thundering scold still ringing in his ears.

  In the right hands, silence and stillness were potent tools, as he well knew, his fostermother being past master of both. Whether his true-mother shared that mastery he did not know—though he expected that he was about to learn.

  His mother closed her eyes, sighed once more, and opened them.

  “Since your cha’leket has exercised duty of kin and spoken to you frankly on the subject of endangering yos’Galan’s heir by choosing to confront the Juntavas planetary administrator in his very office, we needn’t discuss that further.” She paused before inclining her head courteously.

  “I will say, first, that your instincts do you honor. Your reported assessment of Mechanic pin’Ethil’s state—that he was unwell—has been verified by the ship’s Healer. I am assured that the compulsion to continue play once one has begun, to the cost even of one’s melant’i, may easily be lifted by the Master healers at Solcintra Guildhall. Accordingly, Mechanic pin’Ethil will be sent home for Healing.” She glanced down at her folded hands, then back to his face.

  “I will, of course, write to his delm. It would honor me, if the crewmate who offered him care in his disability would assist me in composing this letter.”

  Er Thom blinked. He? Almost, he thought he heard Daav, laughing inside his head: Yes, you, idiot. Who else?

  Hastily, he inclined his head. “I would be honored to assist, ma’am.”

  “Good.” Another pause, another long moment’s study of her folded hands.

  “All honor to you, also, that you chose to lend Mechanic pin’Ethil your support.” She raised one hand, though Er Thom had said nothing. “I know that you have said that there was no choice open to you in this; that your duty was plain, as the mechanic’s crewmate and as the sole representative of Korval present. However, it must be recalled that you are but a halfling, and it was perhaps not . . .quite . . . wise of you to go unarmed into an unknown and possibly dangerous situation.” She smiled, faintly. “I had said we would not repeat the course flown by your cha’leket. Forgive me, that there must be some overlap in approach.”

  Er Thom inclined his head. “Daav was plain with me, ma’am; I’m an idiot child, unfit to be left alone.”

  Improbably, her smile deepened. “Ah. Well, perhaps our approaches do not overlap so very much, then. I would say to you that those of the Juntavas are at best chancy and at worst deadly. Korval has an . . . arrangement . . . with the Juntavas, dating back many years—the appropriate citations from the Diaries will be on your screen at the beginning of your next on-shift. Please read them and be prepared to discuss them with me over Prime meal.” She did not wait for his seated bow of obedience, but swept on.

  “For the purpose of this conversation, let us say that the agreement between Korval and the Juntavas is one of mutual avoidance. The Juntavas does not touch Korval ships. Korval does not interfere with Juntavas business. Matters have stood this way, as I have said, for many years.” She frowned over his head, as if she saw something on the opposite wall of her office that displeased her, sighed, and continued.

  “The meat of the matter is that, despite this long-standing agreement, despite the fact that the scouts keep watch—the Juntavas is not a safe
host. That the gentleman you . . .spoke to . . . would have killed you out of hand is, perhaps, unlikely. For Mechanic pin’Ethil . . .” She moved her shoulders. “Mechanic pin’Ethil is not of Korval, though he serves on a Korval ship. The Juntavas is clever enough to use that distinction to advantage.”

  His horror must have shown on his face, for his mother gave him another of her faint smiles before asking, “Tell me, my son, what would you have done if any of the armed persons in that office had decided to kill Mechanic pin’Ethil?”

  Er Thom stared. Visions fluttered through his head, too rapid to scan, and finally he lifted his hands in exasperation. “I—something. I am a pilot of Korval. I would have done—something.”

  A small pause.

  “Ah, yes,” his mother said softly. “There is a long history of doing . . . something . . . among the pilots of Korval.” She smiled at him and in that instant looked the very image of her twin.”I believe we had best accelerate your defense instruction, Pilot.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He inclined his head.

  “Hah.” She considered him out of abruptly serious blue eyes, once again unmistakably his true-mother. “I would offer—as elder kin, you know—that we have all of us bid farewell to the comforts and the companions of childhood in order to learn our life-trades and begin to shape adult melant’i. I would say that—here is one who recalls the day she watched her sister walk into Scout Academy without her, and who later that same day was shown her quarters aboard the old Adamant Passage. I assure you that the ache in one’s heart does ease, with time, and with the necessities of daily duty.” She raised her hand stilling his start of denial.

  “I do not say that you will cease to love, my child. I merely say—you will become an adult.” She smiled once more, sweet as Daav. “With luck.”

  Er Thom grinned, then inclined his head. “I thank you for the instruction of elder kin.”

  “So.” She glanced aside at the clock on her desk. “It is time and past time for you to be a-bed. Come to me at Prime, and mind you have those entries read.”